We grew up together, I was nine and you were eight and I’d balance on gravestones, my full wingspan splayed out under that oak tree and you’d watch from the threshold of the church. All of this was unsurprising and each encounter over the next fifteen years was filled with electric. You were special, you were important. You managed to crest the waves of my childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood. Car crashes, plane rides, cash registers, you were there. I felt you in my bones from the beginning. We peaked the mountains in Ireland and beer gardens in Germany, and on railways and airway aisles, I felt myself slipping away. I had shed my skin and had grown up and felt nothing. And it’s so unfair that I have no urge to write about you or talk about you, I feel nothing still. How can this happen, how can I toss my childhood away like that and not bat an eyelash, not feel some weighty tug on my heart? There are hard truths of growing up and I guess this is just one of them.